


Greenwich Mean Time

by LizBee



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: F/M, Polyamory, Recovery, and a dog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 06:18:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13475475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizBee/pseuds/LizBee
Summary: Gabriel Lorca has a house by the sea and a dog, but Starfleet has one more mission for him.





	Greenwich Mean Time

**Author's Note:**

> Contains spoilers for "Vaulting Ambition" and pure speculation thereafter. Grew from conversations with the artist occasionally known as sohotrightnow and poppaeasabina (who named the dog).

He still slept badly. Most mornings, Gabriel was awake well before the sun rose, sitting on the front steps with the dog's head on his knee, waiting for first light so he could walk the cliff paths without killing himself.

The dog's name was Bo. Not his choice, but it was fine, it suited her. She was a golden retriever, uncomplicated and loyal, and smarter than some Starfleet officers he'd known.

And she enjoyed long walks. As soon as it was light enough to see to the foot of the hill, she was on her feet, tail wagging.

"It's important to develop a routine," Dr Leron had said at the beginning. He was Efrosian, slightly built, middle-aged at eighty-five, with a shock of white hair and a flowing moustache. The physical opposite of Katrina Cornwell, and Gabriel doubted that was an accident.

It was Leron who had assigned Bo to Gabriel. Or vice versa. The doctor worried, or claimed to worry, that he was isolating himself. Gabriel had tried several times to explain that isolation was exactly what he needed, but his insistence only seemed to deepen Leron's concern.

Bo was a compromise. She was a reason to stay mostly sober, to get out of bed, to leave the house. In exchange for meals, walks and the occasional treat, she watched his blind spots and inspected empty rooms for enemies who didn't exist in this place. She was the price he paid to live alone, half a hemisphere away from his family and those friends who lived planetside. Three times a week, he walked into the village with Bo and beamed to Starfleet Medical's London facilities, to sit in Dr Leron's office and talk about his _recovery_ , and that was just about all the interpersonal contact he could stomach.

This morning they went south, away from the village. Along the cliff, listening to the cry of the sea birds and the low hum of the force field that kept birdwatchers and drunk teens from falling to their deaths. Bo found a stick that pleased her, and carried it in her mouth for two kilometres.

Down the long flight of stairs that led to the narrow beach. Shingle crunched beneath his feet. Bo raced ahead into the water, abandoning her stick in favour of a piece of driftwood, which she dropped at his feet with an expectant look.

"This is beneath you," he told her, but he threw the driftwood anyway. Bo chased after it, tail wagging.

The sun was high when they got home, and he was thinking of breakfast: spinach, eggs, the last of the fresh bagels his mother had sent. Then Bo growled, and he realised there was someone sitting on his front steps. Tall for a woman, and lanky, neatly dressed in Starfleet blue and gold, a walking stick resting between her knees.

"Katrina," he said.

"Gabriel." She got to her feet, and he pretended not to see the care with which she still moved. "You put anti-transporter shielding around your house. Anyone would think you didn't want visitors."

"I don't."

He had chosen the house because it had a clear view of the surrounding area. Difficult to approach without being seen. Now he had to climb the hill as she watched. He could picture her expression, that carefully cultivated neutral mask. Always assessing, always weighing him up, looking for her next advantage--

Bo licked his hand.

Katrina stepped aside when he reached the door, keeping her elbows tucked in, giving him space. Giving herself space, too. It was important to remember that. Remember which one she was.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your leave," she started.

"And yet, here you are." He pressed his palm to the lock.

"Starfleet has a mission for you."

"No."

"It's not a request."

He should have gone inside and left her standing there. But she was an admiral -- a full admiral, promoted some time in the last few months. And he was, still, a Starfleet captain.

Holding the door, he said, "You might as well come in."

He watched her looking around, and tried to see his house through her eyes. Orderly, because he had been a Starfleet officer for thirty-six years and a prep school brat before that. Sparse, because most of his possessions had been on the _Buran_ , destroyed by the other Lorca along with the ship and its crew. A comm unit he barely used. A three-dimensional chess set he had retrieved from his childhood bedroom in the week between being released from hospital and finding this place, set up and waiting for his opponent to make her next move. A couch; a dog bed; a plant on the kitchen table; a slightly dusty bottle of scotch.

He didn't need to wait for her to ask what he did with his time.

"I cook and I read," he told her. "And I see your buddy, Dr Leron."

"Until today, I only knew him by reputation," she said, and it had the air of a mild reprimand.

"Mm."

And why was his psychiatrist speaking to her at all? What were they planning?

Bo looked from Kat to Gabriel, then nuzzled his hand. Anchoring him before his thoughts could go down that path. Or requesting a treat.

"She's got me well-trained," he said, while Bo crunched her biscuit. Small talk. He could manage small talk. Especially if he had something to do with his hands. So. "Can I offer you breakfast?"

"Thanks," she said. He could see her relax, just a little, and hated himself for the relief he felt. "It's nearly midnight in San Francisco."

"Must be big, then. This mission."

She just exhaled, disapproval tightening her mouth. But not, he thought, of him.

While he sliced mushrooms, and Bo waited patiently in case they turned out to be for her, Kat was examining the plant on his table, frowning.

"Is it … some kind of succulent?" she asked.

"It's a bonsai nah'ru vine." He put a cup of coffee in front of her.

She raised her eyebrows. "Vulcan bonsai?"

"It was a gift," he said.

"Ah." She nodded, sipping her coffee.

"Meaning?"

"I didn't realise you were in contact with Michael."

Unwillingly, Gabriel said, "She visits sometimes. Bo likes her."

It was a relief to see that he could surprise her, that she didn't have insight into every aspect of his life. It was one thing to know intellectually that Katrina wasn't omnipotent, in any universe, but it was difficult to discard the skills which had saved his life.

He put a plate in front of her: eggs, spinach, mushrooms, half a toasted bagel. He hadn't been able to stomach meat since the other place.

They ate in silence, and Gabriel found himself remembering other breakfasts over the years. Decadent shore leave room service and rushed meals in busy mess halls, their knees bumping under the table while they pretended to the world and each other that they were just friends.

He found himself chuckling.

"What?" Kat asked.

"I was thinking about the Orion emergency rations, that time we crash landed on Harrow's moon."

A slow smile crossed her face, and she said, "Did I tell you about the banquet hosted by the Orion trade delegate? The appetiser -- I'm not sure what it was, but I _think_ it might have been the inspiration for those rations. Same aftertaste."

"Dirt and shuttle coolant?"

"But served with riesling."

"Well, that's just wrong. A flavour like that calls for--"

"A pinot noir," Kat finished. Her smile had faded. "I forgot. I did tell you about the banquet."

He tried to say, _Ah. Him,_ but couldn't form the words. Had the other guy been shot down over a moon by Orion pirates? Spent three days in the wilderness with Kat, dodging their equally-damaged attackers, stealing their food and hoping it would be Starfleet that came to the rescue, not a slave ship? Or had he found a way to bluff? And known exactly how _he_ would answer Kat's anecdote, because they were, in some ways, the same man?

They finished eating in silence.

When he had cleared their plates and refreshed the coffee, he returned to his seat and said, "What's the mission?"

Katrina sighed.

"We're negotiating with the Klingons," she said. "It's a ceasefire, not a peace treaty. Setting up a neutral zone between our borders. The next session begins in a week. Fleet Admiral McGowan … thinks it would be valuable to show the flag a little. Remind them what we're capable of."

His breath caught in his throat. "No."

Katrina continued as if he hadn't spoken.

"It would be advantageous to have the vessel that destroyed the Ship of the Dead present. And its crew. And its captain."

"I said no."

"A shuttle leaves headquarters at 0600, San Francisco time. We'll be be on board to rendezvous with _Discovery_ at Utopia Planitia."

He paused. "You, too?"

"A high ranking PoW? They want me to look the Klingons in the eye and show them … I don't know." She ran her hand over the miniature nah'ru. "We have our orders."

"I can't do it," said Gabriel. "I'm not that man." He stared at his hands. Bo, sensing his distress, put her head on his knee. "I don't even think I _could_ do it."

"I understand."

"I doubt it," he snapped.

She swallowed.

"Okay," she said. "No. What you went through in the parallel universe was--"

"Six months, Admiral." He was on his feet, Bo close by his side. "For six months, I was surrounded by strangers who looked like my friends. Always watching, in case someone decided to send my head to the emperor in a box. The only reason I wasn't killed right away was because _their_ Cornwell thought I might be of use to her. And here you are. Making use."

He turned and marched outside, followed by Bo. The backyard was muddy and uneven. He walked away, knowing she wouldn't be able to follow him.

He let Bo lead him toward the village. There was a park on the outskirts where she liked to play fetch. It was just past 0900, but there were already parents with young children in the playground. This was a small place, and the residents seemed to be used to the morose American with the well-trained dog. A couple of people waved, but they knew by now not to stop for conversation.

He played with Bo for five minutes, then steeled himself and began to make his way back.

He found Katrina sitting on the patio stairs, coffee cup in her hand, another by her feet. There were deep shadows under her eyes.

"When did you last sleep?" he asked.

"I'll rest on the shuttle."

"Not an answer."

He sat down beside her and reached for his cold coffee.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I argued. Dr Leron has recorded a formal objection in his log."

"The strategy's sound."

"It's ruthless." She reached out and let Bo sniff her hand. She had never been one for animals. "The thing is," she said, cautiously petting Bo, "if we pull this off, the president will restore Michael's commission."

Gabriel swallowed.

"Quid pro quo?"

"Something like that."

"Does she know?"

"Not yet." Katrina shuddered as Bo licked her fingers, but didn't pull away. "I called in every favour I'm owed to get her sentence suspended. It seemed like the least I could do. But this…" She shook her head. "I don't even know if it's the right thing to do. It wouldn't make her popular. But her service in this war has been exemplary. Even given--" She caught his eye and looked away. "The irregularities."

He said, "She's happy. As your aide."

"She's overqualified."

"Better than prison."

Her exact words, punctuated by the click of the chess piece on the board as Michael moved her bishop to queen's level 2.

"What isn't?" he had asked, not quite facetiously.

Michael didn't need to answer.

He could feel Katrina watching him. Analysing.

"Are you attracted to her?" she asked.

"No," he said. "...Yes."

He regretted answering as soon as the word left his mouth. The other one would have smiled, filing the knowledge away to exploit later.

This Katrina just nodded and said, "It's complicated."

"It's a bad idea. And we both know it."

"You've talked about it?"

No. They danced around it, between games of chess and walks with Bo and the snip of the secateurs as she maintained the nah'ru vine. His duplicate had raised and used her counterpart, and regarded Michael herself as something between a consort and a pawn. He had been her commanding officer and saviour and betrayer, and Gabriel knew very well that she didn't look at him without seeing that man.

Just as he couldn't look at her without seeing the mutineer who helped start a war. And the officer who had saved his life and brought him home.

He had saved her, too. And snapped the neck of the other him. Without regrets, which seemed to trouble Dr Leron. For the first time, he wondered if it would bother Katrina.

His silence was answer enough for Katrina. She shook her head and said, "Be careful."

_You don't get a say anymore, Kat_. The words were on the tip of his tongue, but he held them back. It used to be he was glad to give her a say.

But she knew she had overstepped. She ducked her head, muttering, "Sorry."

"It's fine."

It wasn't. But the pretence was appealing.

He climbed to his feet.

"0600?" he asked.

"1400, local time." Katrina had to brace herself with her walking stick to stand. "Can you do this?"

"I don't see how any of us have a choice." Bo bumped her head against his leg, and he gave her a scratch behind the ears. "But I'm bringing the dog."

Katrina smiled. "Good," she said.

She curled up on the couch and fell into a light doze while he assessed his belongings. It didn't take long to pack. The chess set was designed to fold itself into a small box, all the positions recorded. The nah'ru vine had its own travel container. And Bo watched closely as her treats went into his bag.

Changing into his uniform. That took longer.

Dressed, at last, he sat on his bed, rank insignia in hand.

It had been a talisman. Or a reminder, that he didn't belong in that place, that he would survive and find his way home. And when he met Michael Burnham, it was the only proof he could offer to a wary stranger that he was indeed Gabriel Lorca, captain of the _USS Buran_.

He heard Katrina stir. Bo sat up expectantly as her footsteps approached the bedroom. The door was open, and she paused in the doorway, watching him.

He held the pin out to her. Unscratched. Unmarred by any of it. She left her walking stick leaning against the wall and took it from his hand. He stood up to let her attach it to his jacket.

It was the first time he had let anyone touch him since he was discharged from Starfleet Medical.

"The thing is," he found himself saying, "I didn't hate her. The other Cornwell. Feared her, sure. I watched her take hardened soldiers and strip their minds inside out, turn them into shells begging for death. Without using the agony booth. She said they were crude."

Katrina looked sick. She dropped her arms, putting her hands behind her back, but she didn't move away.

"But I didn't hate her," he repeated. "I needed to give her a reason to want me alive. To want. Me."

"How?"

"Argued, at first. She liked that. Not many people had the guts to disagree with her. Made her laugh. Been a long time since anyone managed _that_."

She nodded.

"And I killed for her," he added. "After the second assassination, she took me to bed. I could hate myself for what I was doing to survive, but _she_ was always watching, and she was _very_ perceptive. It wasn't safe to hate her." They were close enough that he only had to lean forward slightly to whisper in her ear, "That's why I told the doctors I didn't want to see you. It's safer. To resent you for what she did."

Katrina shifted, and her breath was warm on his ear as she whispered, "The other you? I do hate him. Easily. He lied, manipulated, left me in a Klingon prison to wonder if I'd been wrong about you all these years. He took over your life and set it on fire, and I'm only sorry I wasn't there to see him die."

Gabriel thought of the crack of his neck and the thud of his body as it hit the deck. The shock in Michael's eyes and the pride in the other Cornwell's.

"Well, Katrina," he said, "how does that make you feel?"

"Sick. I'm angry, and I don't know how to stop, and I hate that he did this to me." She paused. "To us."

She was so close. He only had to turn his head a little to meet her lips.

She exhaled, her breath hot on his skin, and returned the kiss. Her hands still behind her back, his arms by his sides; even as they deepened the kiss, they were careful not to let their bodies touch.

His heart was pounding when they separated, and Bo had inserted herself between them, leaning against his legs.

"Are you okay?" Kat murmured.

"Give me a minute. You?"

"Same."

She reached out, and he allowed her to take his hand. He was surprised at how much he wanted her. They still had a few hours before the shuttle launch. Plenty of time to make mistakes. Inflict some fresh scars.

He said, "A stranger took my place, and you were the only one who noticed something was wrong."

"Too late."

"The only one," he said again. Like her counterpart, she was observant. Always watching, always analysing, always with a knife or hypospray within reach--

He pulled his hand away from hers, and she stepped back.

"Bad idea," she said.

"Yeah." He sat down on the bed again and concentrated on Bo. "You're not her," he said. "But it's … difficult."

"I know."

Katrina was looking for her walking stick.

"Sit down," he said, before he could think better of it, and indicated a space on the bed. Far enough that they could sit without touching. Close enough that the mattress shifted beneath him as her weight settled.

Bo, sensing a rare opportunity, jumped up to sit between them.

"You're shameless," Gabriel told her. She wagged her tail, unrepentant.

"Does she help?" Katrina asked.

"More than I expected."

"Good."

A companionable silence fell between them as the warm late-morning sunlight filled the bedroom.

"I used to do it for her," he said suddenly. "Play the role of the other guy."

"In assassinations?"

"Sometimes." He scratched Bo under her chin. "Chaos suits her. The other guy's spotted halfway across the quadrant, that keeps the emperor's attention focused away from Katrina. She likes to play one side against the other. It's why she killed his Michael. You should have seen his face when he realised."

"You keep using the present tense. Do you think she's still alive?"

"She's either dead … or running the place." And sometimes he wasn't sure which option appealed to him more.

He ran his hand through Bo's coat and said, "I don't know _Discovery_ or her crew. And they have no reason to trust me."

"We have a week."

"Not long enough."

"Your counterpart's logs and files will be made available to you."

He could only imagine what they held. "Great."

"As for the crew -- I think they'll take their lead from Michael Burnham. And she holds you in the highest regard."

*

It was dark when they beamed into Starfleet Headquarters. Michael waited for them in the transporter room. She still wore no insignia, but science silver had been swapped for command gold. It suited her.

"Admiral," she said. "Captain." And, with a hint of a smile, "Bo."

"Bo's been classified as a diplomatic envoy," Gabriel told her.

"Ambassador Sarek will be delighted."

Katrina was asleep almost before the shuttle had left orbit. She had taken a seat opposite Gabriel and Michael, who by silent agreement had left an empty seat between themselves. Bo, an experienced space traveler by dog standards, was dozing in her crate.

"I have the other Lorca's logs for you," Michael said quietly

"Thanks. Are they…" _Terrible?_

"They're sparse," she said. "Unrevealing. Except for his strategic notes, which--"

"Are what I need. Right."

Michael passed him the PADD and said, "It's good to have you back, sir."

"This is just temporary. Soon as the talks are done, I'm going back on leave."

"Indefinitely?"

"Michael," he said, "even if I felt ready to get back in the chair, how can I ask a crew to serve under me? As far as the rest of Starfleet knows, I destroyed my own ship, took my next command off on an unsanctioned mission--"

"And helped end the war."

"You did that," said Gabriel.

"Not alone." Michael leaned forward, glancing over at Katrina. "I know I could get my pips back if we pull this off. And I know why Admiral Cornwell has reservations. No one in Starfleet will want me on their ship."

"Except me," he said.

"The universe hates waste, Captain."

"That sounds like fortune cookie wisdom."

"Worse," said Michael. "But he had a point."

"Mm." Gabriel studied his hands, the dark hairs on his knuckles, the way the PADD rested between his fingers and thumb. Unique, but only in this universe.

Eventually he said, "I'm not ready yet. Admiral Cornwell won't have to find a new aide right away."

"I know. I can wait."

He considered adding, _If you serve under me, we can't be anything else. Your position and my reputation are too precarious._ But he held his tongue. They had gotten this far without putting anything in words. And the ghost of the other guy lingered like poison. That Gabriel had offered Michael respect and given her deception and humiliation instead. He wouldn't do the same.

So he said, "Then it will be an honour serving with you."

A smile touched Michael's lips, and he found himself returning it.

 

 

_end_  



End file.
